


Beautiful Boy

by despommes



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 10:19:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3377852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/despommes/pseuds/despommes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A study in Dorian Pavus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautiful Boy

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why I wrote this. It is entirely self indulgent. Please leave your thoughts. You can follow me on [tumblr](http://isaidyoulookshitty.tumblr.com) if you like.

Dorian is thirteen the first time someone really, truly kisses him.

It is at a nameday celebration for the heir of house Tercimus, and the whole affair is tremendously boring for a young man. The other boy is two or three years his elder, he never really knew. His name is Patrus, and he has long, blond curls that make Dorian’s knees feel strange. Patrus nicks a bottle of wine and pulls him into a broom closet somewhere in the back reaches of the manse. They grin like thieves and stifle giggles as they drink the stolen vintage that they are much too young to appreciate.

Dorian gasps when a few drops fall and bleed into the rich velvet of his new dress robes, altered for him just that afternoon for this exact occasion, and his belly goes heavy with dread when he thinks of what his father will say. Patrus just laughs and leans over him to look, mumbles something about how it isn’t even that noticeable. Dorian shakes his head, his father _will_ notice, but Patrus touches his cheek, crawls forward on his knees and slants their lips together.

He knows he should tell Patrus to stop, this isn’t right, two boys kissing is _wrong_. It doesn’t feel wrong, though, and his heart is beating like a drum in his chest. When Patrus moves away, eyes roving over Dorian’s stunned face, he gives him a little smile and Dorian shoves a hand into those soft blond curls and kisses him again. Patrus tastes like garlic from dinner and the wine they stole, and Dorian’s face grows hot when his tongue slides across his bottom lip. He’s never kissed a girl before, but surely, he thinks, it wouldn’t feel _anything_ like this, like fire under his skin and lightning behind his eyes. Patrus slides a hand down his neck, fingers leaving goose flesh in their wake, and Dorian thinks he makes a little squeaking sound in his throat—

The door to their hideaway is pulled open and the dark alcove floods with light. Patrus pulls away from Dorian like he’s been burned. They look up and see one of the house slaves, broom in hand, and they both stare at him with eyes wide as dinner plates. Patrus bolts, leaving Dorian to take the blame for the stolen wine that has been clumsily spilled over the marble floor.

The slave tells Magister Pavus about the wine, but, for some reason, not about the other boy he’d been caught with. The master of the house laughs the whole ordeal off, says he doesn’t blame the boy for looking for his own fun, even compliments him on his taste in wine. Halward apologizes gracefully, but his hand on Dorian’s arm hurts. When the evening is finished and they return home, he can feel his father’s rage emanating from him in waves. Halward Pavus has never raised a hand to his son, preferring to let the cold sting of his disappointment do the work for him.

“You will never, _never_ embarrass me like this again,” he hisses. There are tears stinging in the corners of Dorian’s eyes, and he thanks every star in the sky the slave that had caught them had decided to be merciful.

_  
_

\--

_  
_

Dorian is fifteen the first time his father catches him with another boy.

It is summer in Tevinter, and the boy is Marius, second son of a lesser magister and Dorian’s classmate in the Circle. Term ended with the spring, and since then Marius has made a habit of scaling the balcony to Dorian’s room in the dead of night. It’s all terribly clandestine, he thinks. Marius is the most handsome boy he’d ever laid eyes on, with eyes the color of amber and skin like cream.

Marius slides a knee between his thighs and scrapes his teeth over his collarbone, and the sensation leaves Dorian twisting in his sheets, trousers unlaced and sliding low on his hips. His hands ruck up in Marius’s shirt, trying to pull it free of his belt. His wrists are grabbed up, however, and he gasps delightedly, teeth shining white in the moonlight as he gives his captor a cheeky grin. Marius pins him with those beautiful eyes, leans in to swipe the point of his tongue along the shell of Dorian’s ear.

There are voices in the hall. Dorian hears them, but Marius is oblivious, preferring to focus on sucking a dark bruise underneath the jut of Dorian’s collarbone. “Stop,” Dorian hisses, ears straining.

“Just a tiny one,” Marius whispers into his skin, “No one will notice.”

There are footsteps, growing closer, and the voices are louder now. Dorian hears his father. He pushes Marius’s head away from where he is kissing around his navel. “Stop, you daft twit, someone’s coming!”

They scramble away from each other in a tangle of sheets and discarded clothes. Dorian frantically does the laces on his pants. Marius scours the floor for his boots, snatches one up and tries to pull it on. Dorian finds his shirt and tosses it over his head just before his bedroom door swings wide, bathing the room in the light from the hall.

The two of them, both only half dressed, turn around to see Magister Pavus standing in the doorway, a candle held in his hand. Dorian can only stand there in horror as his father takes in the scene before him. He realizes what they must look like, he with his breeches laced only halfway, Marius in the middle of buckling his belt with one boot on. His father’s eyes fall on him, linger on his throat, left exposed by the wide collar of the shirt he’d only just thrown on. It is then he remembers the love bite, fresh and dark over his clavicle. Ashamed, he slaps a hand over it but knows that it is too late.

“Father—“ he stammers, voice croaky and thin. He tries to think of something, some lie he can use to quell the storm he knows is coming, but before he can say anything, Halward Pavus raises a hand.

“Not. Another. Word.” He turns his head to Marius, fixes him with a glare. “You.”

Dorian can hear him swallow from across the room. “Yes, my lord.”

“Once you have finished dressing yourself, a courier will be sent to your father’s manse. Someone will come to collect you, and you will not breathe a word of this night, or any nights like it, to anyone. Is that clear?” Marius nods. “You will never again set foot in this house. You will not call, you will not write, and you will never see my son, _again_.”

“Father, please—!”

“SILENCE!”

The anger in his voice makes Dorian flinch. His father’s lip curls, like he is disgusted by the sight of him. His eyes burn themselves into Dorian’s mind and he knows the look his father is giving him now will be scorched into his memory for as long as he lives. Halward shakes his head at him, and with one last scathing glare turns away and slams the door behind him.

Marius is banished to the vestibule, left to wait for someone to arrive and take him home. He gives Dorian a sad, guilty look as he is escorted out by a tired slave woman. A different servant timidly informs Dorian that his father has asked to see him in his study. Still disheveled and barefoot, he pads his way up the grand marble steps. The door to the study is shut, but he hears voices, muffled shouting against the aged wood. One of them belongs to his mother, and he wants to cry.

“Honestly, Halward, your ability to overreact is mystifying!”

“Overreact? _Overreact_?! Tell me, Arabella, how should I be reacting? How should I react to having been told an intruder has climbed into my son’s bedroom in the middle of the night, and then walking in on them _molesting_ each other!”

“How do you know that’s what they were doing?”

“Go and look at your son and tell me what else they could have _possibly_ been doing! It’s all over his face!”

Dorian’s throat burns. There are tears threatening to spill over the wells of his eyes. Hot, thick shame washes over him in a sickening wave and he wants to dissipate into thin air. He’ll never be able to face his father again. Not after this. Not after the disgust he’d seen in his eyes.

“For pity’s sake, he is just a boy!”

“HE IS MY SON!”

His hands reach up to cover his ears. The shock and the volume have shaken the tears loose from his lashes, and they spill down his face in boiling trails of salt. He squeezes his eyes shut.

“He is my son! The scion of our house! He is almost a man, and if this continues, he will _ruin_ us.”

“He is my son too. And I am not going to let you terrorize him any more than you already have tonight.”

The study door bursts open and his mother storms out. She is in her silken dressing gown and her dark hair spills in waves down her shoulders. Dorian hears his father’s shouts of “Arabella!” behind her, and she slams the door shut on them. He reaches up to wipe the tears away, ashamed to let her see her son, who is almost a man, weeping like an infant. He is too late, though, and her eyes, _his_ eyes, are sad when she looks at him.

“Oh, Dorian.” In three long, graceful strides she is in front of him, arms reaching to envelope him in a perfumed embrace. His tears can’t be stopped any longer, and he hides his face in her neck and he quakes with each sob. He feels her hand on the nape of his neck, fingers stroking the short hairs there.

“Does he hate me?” he sobs, tears and snot soaking the shoulder of her dressing gown. “Does he hate me, mother?”

“No, my darling boy,” she croons. He feels one of her cool, delicate hands on his face, and she pulls him out of her shoulder to look at him. Her thumbs brush the freshest of the tears from his eyes. “My beautiful, beautiful boy. He doesn’t hate you.”

“He’s ashamed of me.”

“He is a proud fool.” Her mouth cracks in a sad smile. “Most men are, my love.” She leans forward and presses a kiss to his forehead, then on each of his puffy, wet eyes. “Come, darling. Let’s get you to bed.”

_  
_

\--

_  
_

Dorian is sixteen the first time he falls in love.

He is a gifted student, the pride of the Vyrantium Circle of Magi, and his mentor is a young, brilliant man of twenty or so years named Saul. Saul is a quiet, studious mage of great talent who specializes in death magic. His skin is dark and rich, like aged mahogany, and his hands are long and finely boned. A musician’s hands. He likes tea and books, spends his free time devouring thick, dust covered tomes. Dorian enjoys watching his lips form the words as he reads them.

Dorian _pines_. He connects with Saul on an intellectual level, but he wants more. He could spend hours watching his hands turn pages at his desk, yearns to lean forward and kiss his mouth, run his tongue across the seam of his lips. He wonders what Saul tastes like; his favorite tea, he thinks. Bitter lemons and honey.

One night, he stays late with Saul in his office. He has been trying to decipher his way through an old text in ancient Arcanum for the start of his first thesis, but his Arcanum is rusty where it comes to Saul as naturally as the common tongue. He spends hours coaxing Dorian through the words, explaining them so they make sense and he can take his notes.

When they realize the time, Saul laughs, a quiet, nervous thing that makes Dorian’s heart stutter in his chest. It is long past curfew. Saul brews them a pot of the lemon tea and offers to walk Dorian to his dormitory. Dorian, hands shaking, sets down his teacup, takes a deep breath, and kisses him. Just a soft, tentative press of dry lips. Dorian feels Saul tense up, his breath freeze in his chest. He doesn’t kiss back, but he doesn’t push him away, so Dorian keeps on. He kisses him again, his lips open against Saul’s shocked mouth, and he gasps when those long, beautiful fingers pin him against the desk, jostling their cups. Brown water sloshes out of the china and stains Dorian’s notes.

“We shouldn’t.” Saul’s hands shake at his hips. He leans into the crook of Dorian’s neck, nose nudging behind his ear. “We shouldn’t be doing this. _I_ shouldn’t…”

Dorian shakes his head, moves to touch their foreheads together. “I don’t care.” He licks his lips. “I don’t care, Saul, I won’t tell anyone, I _want_ you—“

And just like that, Saul has his mouth. Dorian’s lips part in a soft moan and Saul licks into him. He tastes like tea, yes, but also like cinnamon and the dark magic in his dusty tomes. Dorian fists a hand in the front of his robe, gasps a little when he’s lifted to sit on the desk. Saul fits himself between his thighs to better sink his teeth into his neck. He all but writhes against him, there in his mentor’s office with the door unlocked and fingers fumbling at the clasps of his robes.

He lets Saul lead him into the tiny bedroom adjacent to the office. The door is locked behind them. Saul’s hands tremble as they slide off his clothes, fingers dancing on his skin as it is revealed inch by inch. Dorian’s hands are greedy. They run over the width Saul’s shoulders, down the taut lines of his stomach, up into his hair to tug and tease. He lets Saul pull him into his bed, settling his body over Dorian’s. He touches him until he’s gasping and shaking in the sheets, breath coming in sharp and ragged pants. He lets Saul take him, something he’s never done before but, Maker, it’s unlike anything he’s ever felt and he never wants it to end. Saul pulls Dorian’s head back by his hair when he comes, bites down on the curve of his throat, just over his pulse. It wrings a long, shuddering moan from him, until he sees stars behind his eyelids and nearly rips holes in the threadbare sheets. He lets Saul drape an arm over his hips when it’s over, nose buried in Dorian’s damp hair. They fall asleep like that, tangled in a heap of drying sweat and racing hearts.

The next few months are some of the happiest in Dorian’s life. He spends his days working on his thesis and researching, sneaking kisses behind closed doors or subtle touches underneath desks. They spend the nights fucking in Saul’s office. Occasionally Dorian can afford to stay the night in Saul’s bed. He treasures these nights; Saul’s arms around him, the smell of him in the sheets and pillows. And there was always the chance he would wake in the morning to lips at the back of his neck and eager hands against his skin. More often than not, however, he was forced to sneak back into his dormitory, fondly thumbing the love bites and bruises under his shirt.

He is in love with Saul. Hopelessly. It’s foolish, he knows, but he can’t bring himself to care. He loves the way he drums his fingers on the desk when he thinks, loves the way he sighs into Dorian’s ear after sex, loves the special, fond look he gives him when he talks about his research. He knows he’s being naïve and idealistic, but he can’t help thinking he wouldn’t mind spending the rest of his life here in this Circle with Saul. Damn his father, damn his lineage, damn the magisterium. His sun rose and set with the curve of Saul’s smile.

One evening, in the throes of passion, Dorian tells him. He writhes in Saul’s lap, glistening with sweat and so, _so_ close to the edge he could beg for it. Saul has never been cruel, though, and he leans forward as they move together, leaves hot open-mouthed kisses over the curve of his shoulder. Dorian tucks his face into Saul’s hair, lips panting desperate moans into his ear, and he whispers it, softly, “I love you,” and comes. He breathes in ragged gulps, groans as he feels Saul tense under him and follow him into climax. They stay for a moment, gasping against each other. Dorian’s head falls to Saul’s shoulder. He plants a tender kiss there.

“What was that?” Saul asks, a hand slipping down Dorian’s slick back.

“What?”

“What was that, that you said?”

Dorian swallows, apprehensive. “I…” His gut clenches with dread. “I said I loved you.”

There is an agonizing silence, and Dorian wishes with all he is that he could reach out into thin air and take his words back. Saul gently pushes him out of his lap. Dorian reaches for him, terrified that he’s ruined everything, whatever this is they have.

“Well,” Saul breathes, “it’s getting rather late.”

Dorian leans in and kisses him, slow and raw, like he’s trying to apologize. Saul gently holds him by the jaw, pulls away. Dorian shakes his head. “It’s not that late,” he says, forcing a tiny laugh.

“It’s almost curfew. I don’t want you to get written up on the way back to your room.”

“So I can stay here.” He dips his head, presses his lips to Saul’s fingers. Lets his tongue linger at a knuckle. “Tomorrow’s the weekend. We can stay in bed all morning.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Dorian slides a hand up his leg and leans in for another kiss. Saul grabs at his wrist, pulls him away. “Stop.”

“Saul—“

“Dorian, please!” He all but pushes him away, a hand planted firmly in the center of his chest. Dorian stares at him. Saul won’t look at him, eyes averted to the floor at the side of the bed.

“I’m sorry.” There’s a lump fighting its way up his throat. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Please. Just get your things and go.”

He dresses quickly, ears burning in shame. Saul follows him on his way out, and he hears the office door lock behind him. The next morning, he wakes to a letter with his usual mail. His fingers shake as he reads it, heart hammering against his ribs. He crumples it in his hand and storms down to Saul’s office.

“You’re _reassigning_ me?” he hisses, throwing the crinkled letter on his desk. Saul’s back is to him, pulling books from his tall shelves. There are piles of them all over the room, and some of them have been stuffed into trunks.

“Enchanter Gideon has agreed to take you on as his apprentice,” he says calmly. Dorian’s jaw falls in disbelief. “He’s well versed in death magic. You’ll find him a suitable replacement after I leave.”

“Leave? Where are you going?!”

“There’s no need to shout.” Saul crosses the room and closes the door. “I’m leaving for Nevarra. I’ve decided to spend a few years at the Grand Necropolis with the mortalitasi there.”

“Is this because of last night?” Dorian asks him. His chest feels like the breath’s been punched out of him. The corners of his eyes begin to burn. “Because I said I loved you?”

“Yes, it is!” Saul’s voice is quiet, but his words are sharp and they land right in the center of his gut. “Do you not get it? This could ruin me! If word got out that I was,” he pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes sliding shut, “ _fucking_ my apprentice, Maker. I’d lose everything. My position, my tenure, my resources. All of it, gone.”

“What about me?” Dorian wants to scream. He wants to throw something, kick over Saul’s desk. “What about us?”

“You’ll adjust.” It _crushes_ Dorian. He blinks back tears. Saul sees him, and takes a long, impatient breath. “It was just sex, Dorian. That’s all it ever was. I’m sorry.”

“You’re not.” His voice is thick, on the verge of a sob, and he’s all at once humiliated and heartbroken.

“You are… An extraordinary young man.” Saul moves to stand in front of him. Lifts his chin up with two fingers. Dorian feels his eyes roam over his face, but he can’t bring himself to look at him. “You’re so sharp, so intelligent. Such a gifted mage. And you are so, _so_ beautiful.” His thumb brushes against Dorian’s bottom lip, and his eyes slide shut with the sudden urge to suck it into his mouth, convince Saul not to do this. “But you’re very young. And I should not… I should _not_ have encouraged you.”

Dorian slaps his hand away. He glares at him, lips pulled over his teeth in a grimace. “Encouraged me?” he hisses. He jabs a finger into Saul’s chest. “You kissed _me_ back. _You_ fucked _me_. This is just as much, if not _more_ , your fault as it is mine. And now you’re just going to leave me. Leave the silly little boy who’s too naïve to know the difference between affection and _just sex_. Run away from this mess you got yourself into when you decided to fuck your apprentice.”

“Dorian—“

“No!” He shakes his head, refuses to listen. Dorian turns away from Saul and quickly opens the door. “I wish you luck in Nevarra,” he spits, and slams it shut behind him.

Saul leaves three days later. Dorian spends the next week holed up in the library, using the homemade cipher Saul had helped him write for ancient Arcanum to build his thesis. A boy with whom he had once been good friends invites him to share a bottle of whiskey, smuggled in over the weekend. Dorian drinks far too much. He kisses his friend, lets him fuck him in his dormitory bed, but it only makes him feel worse. When he’s alone again, sick from the whiskey and from the ache in his heart, he sits on the bed and sobs into his hands, feeling equal parts foolish and pathetic. Shivering and miserable, he vows this will never happen again. He will not make the same mistake twice.

_  
_

\--

_  
_

Dorian is seventeen when his mother dies.

Essence of nightshade, his father writes. Suicide. The coroner had announced it. There is to be a service. She left him a letter. Dorian comes home for the first time in months. _Months_. His conscience presses on him, guilt rising in the back of his throat like bile.

If he had been home, maybe…

Dorian wanders the manse like a ghost. He had always thought it too big for just the three of them, even with the slaves and the servants. It felt even lonelier now that there were just two. He and his father. Two members left of the great house Pavus. Alone in this colossal house.

He can’t open the letter. Not yet.

He doesn’t try to think about why. His mother and father never loved each other. It was no secret. Sometimes he felt like _he_ was the only thing they ever had in common, and they even fought over that. Which children of which magisters he should befriend, where he should be sent for schooling, when and whom he should marry. His mother fought tooth and nail over these things, and now she was no longer here to fight for him.

All the clothes he is given to wear are black. Black for mourning, as is appropriate etiquette, and black for the next thirty-three days, as is also appropriate. His mother hated black. _Wearing black is not good for the soul_ , she’d always said, and he’d never really understood what she meant, but he thinks he might now.

There is an endless stream of visitors, ready to offer their condolences. He and his father spend hours seeing guests in the parlor, all of them clad in black and all of them wondering, _how this could have happened, they’ll never understand, she was such a lovely and cheerful woman_. He wonders if any of these people had ever even met Arabella Pavus. Surely, if they had, they would have known that she was a sad, melancholy woman stranded in a marriage with a man she loathed and with no form of solace, save wine and an entire bottle of essence of nightshade, evidently. He keeps his mouth shut during these visits, but inside he is seething and he would like nothing more than to tell them to their faces that they are power-mongering idiots come to observe them in their misery as a means to validate their own status and good fortune.

At some point, his father begins accepting guests privately. Dorian sees the ladies entering and exiting the manse through the library windows, batting their eyes as his father offers them his arm. He mentions it one night at dinner, a rather lonely affair that mostly consists of the two of them eating in silence and trying to ignore the blaring emptiness of his mother’s chair.

“Is there to be a new lady in the house soon?” he says nonchalantly over a spoonful of his soup. His father sighs.

“It is expected that I take another wife after mourning. As you well know.”

“I do.” Dorian clears his throat, reaches for his wine glass. “Tell me, are you planning on waiting until mother is resting comfortably in her crypt for the wedding, or is there to be a ceremony and proceeding immediately following her service?”

“ _Venhedis_ , Dorian! You think this is easy for me?”

“You couldn’t stand her.” His words are venomous. “I bet you were _overjoyed_ when they found her body.”

“She was my wife!” It is perhaps the most emotion he’s seen out of his father since he returned home. “Twenty years I spent at her side! My wife! The mother of my son. And you dishonor her with your words.”

Dorian flings his napkin on the table, appetite suddenly gone. His chair scrapes backwards and he stands to leave. Hatefully, he turns and glares at his father, voice swollen with tears that until now he couldn’t bring himself to cry.

“It is your fault she is dead.”

He’s never said anything so hurtful in his life, but once the words leave his mouth he feels a rush of vindication. The gutted look on his father’s face is satisfying in a way he could never have dreamed. He turns on his heel and climbs the stairs to his bedroom.

He sees the envelope on his vanity. It is lilac in color, and there in his mother’s dainty, flowing script is his name. _Dorian_. He wonders if her hands had been shaking when she’d written it, because he would never be able to tell just by looking. Fingers trembling, he slowly, carefully breaks the red wax of the Pavus seal and pulls out the letter. It smells like her, he thinks, and he swallows back a sob. She’d worn the same perfume for as long as he could remember. Some kind of floral concoction he could never name, but he would know it anywhere. It immediately brought to mind the soft, dark curls of her hair in his fingers and the dreamy, musical cadence in her laugh. A laugh, he realizes, he hasn’t heard in what felt like years, and that he would never hear again.

 _My darling Dorian_ , she had written. He barely makes it past his name before he has to put the parchment aside lest he soak it in tears. He shakes as he cries, raw, aching sobs that make him feel like he’s bleeding on the inside. He forces himself to read the rest, hand poised over his mouth as though he could hold back any tears by catching them between his fingers.

She says she loves him, more than anyone or anything in the world. _You were all I had once_ , she says. _When you were a baby I spent hours just looking at you. Your little fingers and toes. All the love I am capable of, all of my hopes and dreams, all wrapped up in you. My beautiful boy_.

She says she is sorry she couldn’t be strong enough, but that she knows he is strong enough for the both of them. _You don’t need me anymore_. He wants to scream, yes, he does, he needs her, never knew how much he’d needed her until she was gone. He doesn’t know what for, doesn’t care, he just knows that his mother is dead and he didn’t even get to say goodbye before she choked down a bottle of poison alone in her bedroom, thinking this letter would be good enough for him.

He doesn’t sleep that night. In the morning he rises to dress for her service, bags under his eyes to match the black robes he wears. It doesn’t rain, as would be ever so appropriate for the occasion, but the sky is a bleak grey.

The service is long and not very interesting. A revered mother he has never met before recites parts of the Chant he’s never read before, and then throngs of people whose names he never bothered to remember all offer their condolences to him and his father. It is all dreadfully morose. The funerary parade follows his mother’s casket, he and his father close behind.

They carry her into the crypt, place her into her sarcophagus. Before the lid closes, Dorian looks at her face one last time. He hadn’t noticed before, but she had grown old. There were crow’s feet in the corners of her beautiful eyes, and her long, dark hair was starting to grey at the temples. The revered mother speaks his mother’s final rites in Tevene, but he is not listening. He’s too busy trying to burn into his memory this last glimpse of the woman who wiped away his tears and kissed his hurts as a child. She was not a perfect woman, but she’d been his mother, to the best she knew how. And here he was, about to seal her away in this stone grave forever.

When they emerge from the mausoleum, the sun is just starting to peek out from behind the grey wall of clouds. Halward Pavus looks up at the sky, pensive and quiet.

“You were right,” he murmurs to Dorian, voice low. Dorian’s eyes narrow in confusion at his father’s words, until Halward turns to look at him. His face is tired, worn. He looks harrowed. “It is my fault she is dead.”

For once, Dorian does not have the strength or the willpower to be scathing. He is simply tired. Tired and deeply, deeply sad. Wordlessly, he reaches out and places a hand on his father’s shoulder, gives it a gentle squeeze.

The sun disappears back into the clouds.

_  
_

\--

_  
_

Dorian is nineteen when he learns he is betrothed.

He is studying under the patronage of Magister Alexius. His father sends him a letter inviting him home for the winter solstice, and, although it is odd, he cannot come up with a good enough reason to decline. So he travels to Qarinus, back to the family home he has purposefully not frequented in the years since his mother’s death. His father remarried the previous spring, a middle aged widow from a prestigious family. Dorian did not attend the wedding, but he did begrudgingly send a letter offering his congratulations to his father and new stepmother. As such, the Pavus estate ceased to be home to him the day he lay his mother to rest.

The night he arrives, his meets with his father in his study. They speak over brandy, mindlessly polite small talk about his journey, his studies with Magister Alexius, any discernable news from Minrathous. It is strangely pleasant conversation for them, and Dorian is at once suspicious.

“I have some rather exciting news,” Halward announces.

Dorian clears his throat and pours himself more brandy. “Oh. Truly?”

“I’ve been in touch with Magister Herathinos. You know him.”

“Oh yes, the fellow from Perivantium, with the great white beard and affinity for ostrich feathers.”

“Yes, precisely.” Dorian watches the change in his father’s posture. His back stiffens, as if steadying him for an oncoming storm, and his pointer finger taps anxiously at the glass in his hand. “He has a daughter, you know. A lovely young woman named Olivia, quite skilled in the entropic arts.”

“I _knew_ it.” Dorian shakes his head, stares thoughtfully into his glass before throwing back the whole of its contents as if they were water. “Sorry, father, but I’m afraid I’ll need a lot more brandy for this conversation.”

“Your mother and I—“

“ _Don’t_ ,” he hisses. “I’ve come to terms with your remarriage, father, but do not test the extent of my good graces. That woman is _not_ my mother.”

“It is a good match.” Any good nature his father’s voice might have carried before is gone. “She is young, pretty, a gifted mage. Her bloodline is impeccable. She will bring much to the Pavus legacy.”

“I have already told you, I am not ready to be married. I am not even twenty! I have only just begun my studies with Alexius, and I do not need you making marital arrangements for me behind my back!”

“Oh, please, Dorian, how else am I to go about this? You won’t even _meet_ any of the young ladies I mention to you. I was your age when your mother and I were promised to each other. And it would be a number of years before a wedding anyhow, with your studies and her schooling.”

“How old is this girl, father?” Dorian asks. His father sighs, a hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“She is fifteen now—“

“You must be _joking_.”

“But in a few years she will be a perfectly suitable young woman for you!”

Dorian laughs, a harsh, bitter sound accompanied by the splashing of brandy in his glass. “You see, father, that’s the thing, isn’t? There are no young _women_ suitable for me.”

“Honestly, Dorian!” Halward runs a hand through his hair. “You’ll have to move past these,” he nearly flinches at the admission, “ _eccentricities_ of yours someday! You’re a man grown! You have a duty to your family!”

“Eccentricities!” He laughs again. “Call it whatever you want, father, might as well call it what it is. I prefer _men_! I like _cocks_! I enjoy fucking men, I enjoy _being fucked by men_!”

Halward steps forward and slaps Dorian across the face so hard his glass falls from his hand. It rolls on the floor, the brandy soaking into the carpet. Dorian’s hand flies to his cheek in shock. He gapes at his father, stunned.

“Tomorrow afternoon.” Halward pauses, takes a deep breath for composure. “You will sit in the gardens and have your portrait drawn.”

Dorian shakes his head. “I will not.”

“You _will_.”

“Or what? Else you’ll strike me again?” He stands, turns his back to his father to leave.

“Or else your studies will cease to be funded.”

That stops him in his tracks. Face stinging and hot, he gives his father a wounded look. “You can’t.”

“I can. And I will if I have to.” His father’s eyes soften. “I don’t want to, but you leave me no choice, Dorian.”

“Don’t do this to me. Father, please don’t.” He sounds pathetic, he knows, but he can’t help the waiver in his voice. “You would rob me of any chance of happiness. It would kill me. You are sentencing me to _death_.”

“Stop being dramatic, Dorian.” Halward scoffs. “Plenty of young men are intimidated by the prospect of marriage, and they see it through with dignity and honor. It is your duty to your family. To the Pavus name.”

“No. Your name. Don’t pretend this is for my sake.”

“Marriage is not a death sentence!”

“ _It was for my mother_!”

He relishes the look of shock on his father’s face. He stalks out of the room, kicking the dropped glass as he goes. It tumbles across the rug, bounces off the opposite wall.

That night, he sets out the clothes he is to wear for his portrait, all the while fighting the urge to scream.

_  
_

\--

_  
_

Dorian is twenty-two when he decides to kill himself.

The first time he meets his betrothed is at a gala held in the Pavus family manse. It is the public announcement of their engagement. Several members of the magisterium and distant relatives from all over the Imperium come to drink his father’s wine and talk over each other late into the night. They titter their congratulations to him and his intended. He puts on a charming, polite smile as he thanks them, and it is all he can do to keep from crushing the delicate crystal clutched in his hand. He wonders if his blood would be the same color as the wine.

The poor girl is a tiny, nervous thing who shakes as she stands next to him. She is pretty enough, with her auburn hair twisted in an elaborate braid and large, doe brown eyes that glimmer like she is constantly on the verge of tears, but what strikes Dorian the most is how positively _young_ she looks. The thought brings about a lurch in his stomach so nauseating he has to close his eyes and breathe deeply several times throughout the night. He drinks more.

He tries to be kind towards her, truly. It is obvious she wants to be here just as much, if not less, than he does, eyes darting over faces in the crowd to avoid looking at him. He wonders if she’s been warned of his… tendencies. It is not common knowledge among the nobility, but he has a reputation in some circles, despite his father’s diligent efforts to quell any such talk. Try as he might, however, he cannot bring himself to be sympathetic to her plight, similar as it is to his. Both being forced into a marriage neither of them wants, having to pretend to be overjoyed at the idea of spending their lives with the total stranger at their side. He has drunk far too much, though, and the roiling storm in his chest leaves no room for pity on Olivia Herathinos’ behalf.

The worst part of the evening is seeing how absolutely _pleased_ his father is. Halward practically glows as he converses with their guests, eyes bright with merriment. And, amazingly, some part deep inside of Dorian swells with the idea that finally, _finally_ his father is proud of him. He is finally the son Halward Pavus has always wanted. Finally, he is _enough_. Near the end of the party, he feels his father’s hand on his shoulder, turns to see him smiling, and maybe even a little emotional.

“Tonight’s been quite the success, hasn’t it?” he says, looking out across the ballroom.

Dorian nods. “Yes it has.”

“I know we don’t always see eye to eye.” His father clears his throat. “But I wanted to tell you I… I am immensely proud of the man you have become.”

 _No, you’re not_ , Dorian wants to say. _You’re proud of the man you’ve tried to make me into_.

“A little too much to drink perhaps, father?” he says lightly, glancing into his father’s cup in jest. “I don’t think I’ve heard anything so sentimental come out of your mouth in years.”

“I mean it.” His eyes fall on Olivia, now all the way across the room with her own father. “She’s a lovely young woman. Any man would be fortunate to have such a bride. A very good match.” He chuckles. “With any luck, there will be a wedding within the next few months, and an heir a year from that.”

Dorian has to hold his breath, lest his father hear the pitiful noise that catches in the back of his throat. He squeezes his eyes closed, tries to stop the panic cresting underneath his breastbone. He wants to scream, wants to walk out, leave and never look back. The fact that a part of him still basks in the face of his father’s praise makes him feel physically ill. It feels like he is suffocating.

He can’t do this.

The evening dwindles to a close sometime in the early morning, and once the last guests are seen out, Dorian retires to his bedroom. He asks for water to be drawn in the great, marble bathroom just down the hall. Very, very calmly, he opens the top drawer of his desk and after a few seconds of rummaging pulls out a beautiful, ornate letter opener. A gift from his father, he remembers, just before he left for schooling at the Circle. The delicate hilt is studded with tiny rubies in the shape of serpents.

The bathwater is nearly scalding. Dorian strips himself of his robes and, wincing at the heat, slides into the large tub. A servant has already taken the liberty of adding the appropriate salts and oils, and the perfumed air makes his head feel heavy and slow.

He sits for a long time, taking slow, measured breaths. His hands shake. He can’t help but think of his mother’s handwriting in the letter she’d left him, how steady and beautiful it had been and he wonders how she’d managed it. It makes him glad he didn’t think about writing a note of his own. Concentrating, Dorian holds his left arm, palm out, and drags the index finger of his right hand over the soft skin there. Crystals of frost bead over his flesh, climbing up to his elbows. He grits his teeth through the sting of the cold, but after a few moments the magic adequately numbs all the discomfort away. Satisfied, he does the same to the other arm.

The letter opener sits at the edge of the bath, glittering in the soft candlelight. His fingers still tremble when he reaches for it, partly with the cold and partly with nerves. He swallows down the anxiety bubbling in his throat. Steels himself. Carefully, methodically, Dorian sinks the point of the blade into the flesh at the base of his wrist. There is only the barest twinge of sensation, deep under his skin where the magic didn’t quite reach, but it is enough to stutter his breath. His chest starts to heave, and he tries to calm himself, pace his lungs lest he hyperventilate. He grits his teeth and, with an agonized grunt, drags the blade down his arm, digging in until he reaches his elbow.

The blood comes instantly, washing over his fingers in a warm tide. It pulses from the wound in time with the rapid beating of his heart and drips into the water like so much spilled wine. Gasping, Dorian clenches the blade in his damaged hand, bites down on his lip as he slices into the other arm. It’s not as deep and the gash is nowhere near symmetrical, but it bleeds nonetheless. The letter opener falls from his twitching fingers and clatters on the marble floor, leaving red splatters where it bounces.

Dorian looks down at the bathwater. Blood flows from where his gutted arms rest on the sides of the tub, curling in the water like drops of red, red paint. Some drips down the walls of the bath. It puddles there on the floor. Soon he is lying in a pool of scarlet, and his hands have long since stopped shaking.

His vision grows blurry. All he can see is deep, dark red against his paling skin. There is a pleasant fuzziness in his head, and he leans back against the tub, breath coming harder and harder. The weight of his eyelids proves too much, and just before they slide shut he thinks he hears a knock at the door and he hopes, prays he’ll bleed to death before someone walks in and finds him there. Dorian shrinks into himself until the knocking is a distant drum, fading with the beat of his heart. The last thing he thinks he hears before he blacks out is someone, a woman, shrieking in the hall.

He does not expect to wake again.

The first thing he notices, before his eyes even open, is a great pounding ache in his head, worse than any hangover he’s ever had. Weakly, he tries to raise a hand to rub his temples but his arm never even moves from his side. All of his limbs feel heavy, too heavy to lift, and a weak groan leaves his throat. There are gentle fingers at his elbow, a soft voice murmuring, _please, master Pavus, don’t try to move, lie still, rest_. It takes monumental effort to open his eyes, but when he does, he is in his own bed. A slave girl stands at his side, face peaky and eyes wide when he notices her.

“What…” His voice is hoarse and his mouth feels like it is made of cotton. “How did…”

“You have been unconscious for almost an entire day, Master Pavus.” The girl looks towards the window. The sky beyond the curtain is purpling into sunset. “Someone was sent to inform your father when you first began to wake. I have been told to watch over you until he arrives.”

Dorian looks down at his arms. They are swathed in soft bandages, which are mostly white except for the twin lines of red that bloom over the gashes he’d made. He tries to curl his hands into fists, but all he can manage is a weak twitch of his fingers before the girl presses his hands back against the bed, politely imploring him not to overexert himself. He turns his head to face away from her and glares out the window.

He thinks he must have drifted away for a few moments after, because the next thing he knows his father is glaring down at him from his bedside, the horror on his face plain as day. Dorian can only stare listlessly back.

“Why,” his father hisses.

Dorian licks his cracked lips. “You know perfectly well _why_.”

“Because of the engagement? You would throw everything away, all because of that?” Halward rubs a hand over his eyes, falls back into a chair at Dorian’s bedside. He gives a ragged sigh. “Did you do it to spite me?”

“You think this was for you?” Dorian’s eyes narrow, his lip curling in disbelief. He tries to sit up, arms shaking with the strain. His father reaches out a hand to stop him. “To _spite_ you? What did you think was going through my head, father? _Oh, yes, this will teach him, this will make him think twice about marrying me off_. You honestly think I was trying to get back at you by slitting my wrists in the bath?”

“Dorian—“

“I did it because I would rather die. I would rather bleed myself dry before I let you or that girl do it yourselves. I would rather fucking die than doom myself to the same life that destroyed mother.”

“I can’t listen to this.” Halward shakes his head, stands from Dorian’s bedside.

“Can’t listen to the truth?” Dorian spits. “That being that your perfect, perfect son tried take his own life, in favor of living the one you’ve tried to create for him?” He grimaces, lifts his trembling, bloodied arms for his father to see. “Is this worth it, father? Is my blood worth your reputation? Your seat in the magisterium? The Pavus name?!”

His father’s silence is answer enough. He stands and leaves Dorian’s bedroom, leaves him lying in the dark.

The wedding is postponed for the foreseeable future. When he is well enough, Dorian rents a lavish apartment in Minrathous, packs his things. He does not speak to his father again before he leaves.

_  
_

\--

_  
_

Dorian is twenty-three when he leaves the Imperium.

Felix sends him a message, asking him to visit the Alexius estate. He says it is of the utmost urgency.

“Have you had any correspondence with your father?” he asks Dorian over a drink once he arrives. His illness-hollowed face, illuminated by the flames licking at the fireplace grate, leaves a sick feeling in Dorian’s throat, try as he might to wash it down with fine wine.

“I have, as it turns out,” he answers. “He wants to _discuss_ things, namely the state of my engagement. I have a feeling it will be less discussion and more heavy drinking. For me, anyway.” His brows furrow over the glass at his lips. “How did you come to know about it?”

“You mustn’t go, Dorian.” Felix’s voice is dire. Dorian stares at him, eyes suspicious and lips set in a terse line.

“Why not?” He sits forward in the plush parlor chair. “What is the meaning of this, Felix?”

Felix shifts in his own seat, pulls a folded parchment from his pocket. “There’s a letter you need to see. I found it in father’s study.” Dorian snatches it from his hand, eyes flickering across the page.

_—the young man is expected to arrive within the week. Magister Pavus has requested our aid in the ritual, as he is not so well versed in the darker, more carnal magics. He has warned that the younger Pavus will likely not consent, and may need to be incapacitated. Typical restraints may not be enough, as he is described to be a readily powerful mage, but Magister Pavus has insisted he not be harmed beyond what is necessary. A weak poison for paralysis would be my first choice, but please make it known if there are other alternatives you find more agreeable. It is essential he remain conscious and coherent enough. Bear in mind that the nature of his son’s perversions is a sensitive topic for Magister Pavus, and he has come to us in good faith. We must take the utmost care in such a delicate matter, as the mind is a terribly unstable medium for alteration—_

Dorian’s mouth falls agape. He reads and rereads the words, unable to warp his mind around their meaning. “Is this…” he breathes. “They mean blood magic?” Felix nods solemnly. “A blood rite, on my mind?”

“I wrote to you as soon as I learned of it.” Felix’s face twists in a grimace. “I am so sorry, Dorian.”

“I do not believe it.” He shakes his head. “No. Father might be up in arms over the engagement, but this? Blood magic? He wouldn’t do this. It could kill me, he _wouldn’t_ do this!”

“Dorian, please, it is there on the page,” Felix says. “Plain as day. I didn’t want to believe it either, but that is your father’s seal. It is true.”

Dorian sighs raggedly, runs a hand up through his hair. He tosses the letter to the floor. “I have to ask him. I won’t believe it until I hear it from his own mouth.”

“Dorian, think about this, please. The letter says they are preparing to subdue you by force. You can’t go.”

“Father is not expecting me for several days. They won’t be prepared for their _ritual_.”

“We don’t know how many others are part of this! They could be anywhere, watching your every move. You need to hide, lie low somewhere they won’t find you.”

Dorian stands, snatches up his coat. Felix tries to convince him not to go but he won’t hear it. He travels to Qarinus that night, under cloak of darkness, storms into the vestibule of his childhood home. He barks at one of the servants to wake his father, tells him he’ll be waiting in the study. Magister Halward receives him some minutes later, clad in his dressing gown and with tired bags under his eyes.

“What is the meaning of this, Dorian?” he asks, squinting against the light of the candle he holds. “Do you have any idea what the hour is?”

“I have just heard the most interesting story, father,” Dorian starts in, arms crossed. “And it must be that, a story, because I can’t fathom it to be true.”

“Oh, do cease being cryptic.”

“A plot!” he snaps. “To lure me here, to force me into some mad, mind-altering blood ritual! Daft, isn’t it? I can’t believe my father, who raised me my whole life to abhor blood magic, told me it was a tool for the _weak_ , would plan such a thing. Utter madness.” The slow, steady wave of dread that crests over his father’s face turns his stomach. His hands clench into fists. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

“Felix told you.”

“Of course he did!” Dorian shouts at him. “How could you do this?! Your only son! You would risk my mind, my life, and for what? Your lineage?”

“It is for your own good,” Halward says, sorrowfully.

“My own good?”

“You tried to take your own _life_ , Dorian! I almost lost you!” He rubs at his eyes, sighs. “I thought, maybe if you… If you could be changed, it would be easier. If blood magic is the only means of doing so, then yes, I will do it to save my son’s life.”

“What if it kills me? What if it destroys my mind, leaves me a husk, a shell? Would that be worth it, father? For the possibility that your son might want to fuck women instead of men for a change?”

“It is not that simple, and you know it!”

“ _HAVEN’T I SHED ENOUGH BLOOD FOR YOUR LEGACY_?”

That silences his father. 

Dorian leaves Tevinter the following morning. Felix finds him passage into Nevarra, where he takes a ship into Orlais. The southern circles have all fallen to pieces, and that seems to be where all the stranded mages are heading, so he decides to take his chances. At port, he hears murmurs of a Conclave meeting in the mountains over the war brewing, and he lies low, tries not to draw attention to himself. He writes to Felix for news from the Imperium. His father is looking for him.

The Conclave is a catastrophe. The breach looms over Haven and plagues the land with demons. Dorian sells his birthright to a squirrelly Orlesian merchant and uses the money to travel to Redcliffe.

_  
_

\--

_  
_

Dorian is twenty-four when he falls in love with Brandon Trevelyan.

Herald of Andraste, savior of the rebel mages and defender of Haven, now their esteemed and beloved Inquisitor. Brandon is sweet tempered and gentle natured, a bleeding heart if Dorian ever saw one. He likes horses and books, can’t carry a tune to save his life, and he is as quick with a joke or a smile as he is his broadsword. The man could charm the knickers off a revered mother, and in the most polite manner possible.

And he is handsome, their Inquisitor. Tall and strong as he is, Dorian thinks he must be a physical embodiment of the south. Skin pale like gleaming marble, with a sharp jawline and dark, well kempt curls. His eyes are deep and dark, rich and warm like a deliciously aged bourbon. There is a short, thin scar across his forehead that trails off into his hairline. It boldens when his brows furrow into a frown. Trevelyan wields a smile as entrancing as any demon in the fade. It’s infectious, all healthy white teeth and bright honesty. They look like complete opposites, Dorian thinks. One the negative of the other, light against dark.

In the fledgling stage of their romance, Dorian is terrified. He can’t even be sure of what, exactly: his presence at Brandon’s side destroying his reputation and everything he’s worked so hard to build in the Inquisition; being accused of using the Inquisitor, ensnaring him in his evil Tevinter clutches and stringing him up like a marionette for his own ends; Brandon waking up one morning and realizing that, no, he doesn’t actually want Dorian and cutting him loose like an unwanted mongrel. Dangerous, he’d said, and he’d meant it. He was foolishly and utterly attached.

He’d tried to explain what it was like in Tevinter, how two men together was unheard of and shameful. Brandon had reassured him, dozens of times, that he was no longer in Tevinter. Such things in the south were different. But it was so hard not to snatch his hand away when Brandon reached for his fingers in the quiet of the library, eyes darting about to make sure no one had seen. He feels guilty for it, but Brandon simply smiles at him, sympathetic, and quietly apologizes. The one time Dorian clasps their fingers together of his own accord, Brandon does not make a display of it. He simply continues reading his book and squeezes Dorian’s hand in return. It is a small thing, but Dorian can’t help the tiny half-smile that ends up on his face.

The sex is _fantastic_. Dorian is not the first man Brandon Trevelyan has been with, and it shows. Brandon is a generous lover. His hands are skilled and gentle at the same time, teasing until Dorian is left shivering and gasping under his touch. Brandon fucks like a rushing tide: pushing and pulling, he takes and gives in equal measures, robs him of his breath and has him drowning in the sweetest way fathomable. It leaves him breathless and light-headed, and he loves every second. Dorian has never had anyone like this before. Sex between men in Tevinter was a fleeting thing, a quick fuck with the sole purpose of getting off and nothing more. This was unrecognizable to him. Brandon spends weeks mapping out his skin, gently prying him apart just to see how he ticks on the inside, and then kissing him back together again.

He knows it instantly when it happens. When it ceases to be simply sex and starts to resemble something else.

They are both exhausted from a long trip back from the desert. Dorian’s hair is still damp from the bath when he falls into bed beside Brandon. He grumbles something about the amount of sand left in the copper tub after the both of them, rolls over to watch Brandon’s fingers flip through the pages of some report or other Leliana had given him. Stubbornly, Dorian slinks over on his belly to drag his lips up Brandon’s forearm. The Inquisitor simply lifts an eyebrow and his eyes flicker momentarily towards him. Not content to be ignored, Dorian bares his pretty teeth in a sly grin and nips at the bony joint in the Inquisitor’s wrist.

“Sister Nightingale’s report, however riveting,” he breathes, lips buzzing against the skin as he speaks, “can surely wait for the morrow, hm?”

“You think so?” Brandon chuckles. He pulls his hand from Dorian’s mouth, uses it to cup his face instead. His thumb strokes over his cheekbone, brushing over the beauty mark just behind his eye. “And I suppose you have other ideas as to how I should spend my time in bed?”

“Oh, several.”

He leans up and captures Brandon’s lips, pulling the report out his hand and tossing it down to the carpet. Brandon hums into his mouth. They move against each other, clambering in the sheets until Dorian ends up in Brandon’s lap. His hands creep up underneath the hem of the soft nightshirt, lifting it up until Brandon gives an amused huff and breaks the kiss to pull it over his head. It is quickly discarded and joins the report on the rug.

“You smell wonderful,” Brandon says, nosing the skin behind Dorian’s ear.

“Yes well, someone has to—ah!” He gasps when Brandon licks along his jawline. He can feel his smile. “Someone needs to make use of those bath oils Madame Sinclaire continues to gift you.”

“Mm. Lavender.”

Dorian’s eyes slide shut, and he is content to bask in the affections Brandon is paying to the tender skin of his throat. Calloused warrior’s hands ruck up his loose cotton shirt, rubbing tiny circles into the skin over his abdominals, emanating outwards to his ribcage. It makes him shiver.

Brandon pulls his lips away to divest Dorian of his own shirt. Satisfied with the bare flesh before him, his eyes roam over his form. Dorian stretches under Brandon’s gaze, rolling his hips in suggestion.

“Once you’ve looked to your heart’s content, you’re perfectly welcome to touch.”

It makes him smile. He reaches out, smooths his hand up Dorian’s torso until he reaches his jaw. His thumb rests over Dorian’s lips, and the mage grasps at his fingers, plants a warm kiss into the palm of his hand.

Brandon’s eyes drop to their intertwined fingers, and suddenly he looks very sad. Dorian almost asks him what is wrong, but then the Inquisitor pulls at his wrists, brings them down in front of his face. There lie the two long, thin scars along his arms. They are bright white against the dark tan of his skin. The right one is straight and deep, carved with a much steadier hand than the left, which is much more jagged and just a little longer. He swallows the growing lump in his throat, trying to think of something witty to say to diffuse the tension.

Brandon runs his thumbs along the scars, feeling the knotted and raised skin. Dorian sits perfectly still. It isn’t as though Brandon has never seen them before; between the sheer amounts of sex they have and the size and prominence of the scars, it would be impossible to miss them. They’ve never spoken about them before. Dorian never offered an explanation and Brandon never asked. They more than adequately explained themselves, and so they’d left it at that.

This night however, Brandon seemed somberly transfixed by them. Dorian fidgets nervously under his gaze. Slowly, carefully, Brandon bends his head. He very methodically touches his lips to the end of the scar on his right arm. He leaves a trail of kisses all the way to the other end, near his elbow. Dorian’s breath catches in his lungs. Brandon repeats the same ritual on the other one, kisses flowing with the crooked lines of the left scar. When he is finished, he lets out a ragged breath that ghosts over Dorian’s skin in a warm rush of air.

Dorian licks his lips. “Brandon…”

“I’m glad it didn’t work.” His voice cracks as he says it. The rawness that comes with the declaration settles in Dorian’s chest and makes his heart ache. “If it had, I…” He gulps in a breath, almost as if he were suffocating. “Maker, Dorian, I can’t even think about you not being here. I don’t want to.” He shakes his head. “If you had died and we had never met, I—“

Dorian leans in to kiss him and Brandon surges against him. He kisses him like he needs him to live, tongue sliding past his lips and hands clutching at his sides. Dorian breaks away for air, and then he’s being rolled over on his back and Brandon is hovering above him. With a little shimmying, they are both bare of their loose-fitting sleep pants, and the skin on skin contact makes Dorian hiss between his teeth. Brandon drops his head until their foreheads are touching and looks into his eyes. Slowly, he starts to rock their hips together.

This is different. They are no longer just having sex; it’s much bigger now. Something settles in the pit of Dorian’s stomach, and it makes his heart swell in his chest until he thinks it will burst. Brandon’s breath is hot against his collarbone and Dorian claws at his back. He loves this man. He loves Brandon, he would bleed for him, kill for him, he’d _die_ for him if he had to, and it fucking terrifies him.

As the pleasure starts to crest within him, Dorian wants to scream, wants to keen into Brandon’s ear the feelings he’s so scared to voice. Instead, he breathes it, one word, almost a whisper. “ _Amatus_.” The word is out in the air before he can think twice, and it fills something inside him he never knew about. Brandon can’t possibly know the meaning behind the word, the name, but he seems to understand the significance it bears. He kisses Dorian, sweet and slow, and his hips drive just a little more frantically.

Dorian comes first. The only warning he gives is a sharp gasp, and then he’s coming, eyes shut tight and mouth slack in rapture. He hears Brandon give an appreciative groan, and two thrusts later he comes too, giving a whole body shudder. Dorian grabs him by his hair and kisses him, until they are boneless and spent against one another.

Brandon sits back on his knees, chest heaving in the light of the candle on the bedside table. He looks down at where Dorian lies, hazy-eyed and with his belly striped with come. It makes him smile, and Dorian gives him a quizzical look.

“You’re beautiful,” Brandon murmurs, and it brings a small blush to Dorian’s cheeks.

“You’re not bad yourself.” That gets a laugh out of him. He gets up and crosses the room to find a cloth. They wipe themselves clean of the mess and settle in under the blankets.

If someone had told him years before that he would ever find a person he deemed worthy enough to call amatus, he would have laughed in their face. But here he is, curled up against Brandon Trevelyan with his nose buried in the nape of his neck. The Inquisitor has long been asleep, but Dorian has not been so lucky. His heart is too full for sleep. He watches Brandon’s chest rise and fall as he slumbers, the mark on his hand flashing a gently pulsing green in the moonlight. Softly, he plants a gentle kiss behind Brandon’s ear.

Maker have mercy on the cursed fool who tries to tear them apart. One or both of them may die in the battles to come, but for now, they are each other’s. And that is enough.

Dorian is twenty-four when he gives his heart away.


End file.
